


Inked

by APerfectGrace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 02:56:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1802764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APerfectGrace/pseuds/APerfectGrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by his brother's recent tattoo, Dean heads into the shop to get a little inking of his own. One shot. Destiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inked

Dean is outside with Sam fixing the Impala.

He always enjoys these kind of days because Sam’s away from the law firm and Dean has a break from his garage and they can just relax with a crate of beers and mullet rock and tinker with Baby and just enjoy being brothers.

Sam’s talking about Jess’s latest story from the hospital when Dean notices this weird colouring on his skin, just under the fabric of his shirt. Concerned, he just doesn’t _think_ and panic coils tight and he grabs Sam’s arm and pulls the sleeve up… only to see this freaking _awesome_ tattoo. Seriously, it’s _phenomenal_ _:_ all bold clean lines and vibrant colours so clear that they’re practically edible, and the details are flawless and as it sinks in Dean can see that it’s a dragon winding around Sam’s forearm _,_ and it stops him in his tracks because it’s like Michelangelo used his brother’s arm as a canvas.

Curious, question after question after question tumbles out of Dean’s mouth: _When and where and how and why and how much and how long and did it hurt and how do you feel?_   Laughing at his big brother’s inquisitiveness, Sam tells him all about this brand new tattoo shop that opened up in town a couple of months ago, that it’s really great and everything is sterile and the artwork is seriously first-rate, and that it’s so good that the shop has attracted customers from three towns over, and it gets Dean thinking about the tattoo that he always wanted but was admittedly a little too scared to get…

So, the next day (with Sam’s instructions and good wishes) he heads down to the high street, hands in his pockets and mind far away, thoughts on dark lines against inky colours. He’s trying to look for this place but before he can think about it it’s already upon him, like it was searching _him_ out. It’s this awesome, sleek shop with black brickwork and silver outlay, the kind of place that just draws you towards it, and that’s exactly what it does to Dean. His legs are moving towards the front of the shop before he can clock onto what’s going on. He reaches the place and peers through the glass – the shop is empty, but there is all this amazing artwork displayed on the window and chrome counters and gleaming tiles, so Dean makes his way to the door and goes in, the bell tinkling and signalling his arrival to the vacant shop.

He slowly looks around and takes everything in; everything is brand new and clean and shiny and state of the art. The tattoo designs on the wall quite literally take his breath away because he never knew that people could create such pictures. He walks past phoenixes with fiery feathers and serene mermaids and stark, Celtic patterns and majestic animals and cursive words curled around twinkling stars and beautiful ivy. It’s all such wonderful art that he feels like he could just stand here and look at them forever and never get bored.

He’s checking out this particular picture of a fallen angel when the back door suddenly opens and this guy steps into the front of the shop, and Dean accidentally knocks over a million things and inwardly screams because holy fuck holy fuck  _holy fuck_  this guy is just the  _sex_. He’s got this messy dark hair that’s just freaking _everywhere_ , and the fucking _bluest_  eyes, like Dean is getting lost just looking at them, and he’s in dark blue jeans and white converse and a grey shirt, but even more than that the guy has the  _hottest_  sleeve winding up his right arm, and it’s just gorgeous and beautiful (like him). Dean’s eyes trace the start of the tattoo at the jut of the guy’s neck, just under his collar, and that makes his pulse race ever so slightly, and his eyes work down the part covered by the thin fabric of his shirt, reappearing under the short sleeve and it’s just _full_ of all these intricate designs and patterns. He can see bright colours and stars and wings and writing in a strange language, and Dean just can’t function right now because this guy is his type to a _tee_ : all bed hair and oceanic eyes and hot as fuck tattoos and sharp clothing style. He’s staring at him and just wants to touch him and his arm and look at him and his arm, maybe for all eternity, but he’s surrounded by all the crap that he accidentally knocked on the floor and the guy is just looking at him with one eyebrow raised and his hands in his back pockets.

"You alright, there?" he says, and Dean inwardly yells again because his voice just  _sings_  through every one of Dean’s bones, touches every nerve and settles in every cell, imprinting itself in his body forever.

"I… um…" he manages to croak, before he suddenly remembers that he had a dork moment and spilled everything on the floor.  "Fuck, hang on…"

And he’s pretty sure that he’s the new spokesperson for tomato ketchup because his face is just  _that_  red, and he’s picking up all the stuff he’s knocked over when Converse cloud his vision, and then he can smell shower gel and watermelon, and then hands are helping him pick up stuff and he looks up but  _fuck fuck fuck_  he shouldn’t have, he really shouldn’t have because those blue eyes are  _looking right at him_  and he can feel his body stirring in every single way, and the guy has a secret smile on his face, and straightens back up with all the crap that Dean knocked over in his arms.

"I’m so sorry," Dean says contritely, feeling like an idiot.

"It’s fine, it happens," the guy says, laughter lacing his voice, and Dean is pretty sure that it’s like sunshine in a bottle.

He doesn’t say anything though, too busy checking him and desperately trying not to look like he’s checking him out.

“Can I help you?” the guy presses, taking a step forward towards Dean, who closes his eyes as watermelon hits his nose again.

"Tattoo," he says quietly, placing all the stuff back on the counter and re-arranging it, wincing as he feels the flush reach his ears.  _Very eloquent, Winchester…_

A barely there grin quirks at the guy’s mouth. "What did you have in mind?"

"Uh, well…" Dean scratches the back of his neck, blushing even more, but now for a completely different reason. "It’s kinda stupid, actually." 

It’s not stupid; it’s just really personal. Dean’s mother died when he and Sam were very young - she died of cancer - and he’s always wanted something to commemorate her. It looks like that time might have finally arrived.

"I’m sure whatever you have in mind will be fine, Mr… uh…" Now it’s the guy’s turn to falter.

He waves him off, laughing embarrassedly. "Oh, Mr. Winchester. But don’t call me that; it’s Dean."

The guy’s smile widens a fraction, like learning his name is the punchline of a joke he’s never known the answer to. “Pleased to meet you, Dean. I’m Castiel, I’m the owner of the shop.”

Castiel… Dean’s never heard such a name in his life, it’s unique and almost celestial and it’s just utterly  _perfect_.

Castiel is offering his hand to Dean and he takes it, shaking it, and Dean is well aware that his hand is humming with the feel of Castiel’s warm, strong grip against his.

"Well, if you’re the owner, you can tell me who’s behind all these awesome designs."

Castiel smile jerks up at the corner, and his eyes shine in his direction. “Of course. They’re all mine.”

Dean is astounded. He owns the shop _and_ does the works? Gifted doesn’t begin to even cover it; Dean is lucky if he can put on a shirt and eat a slice of toast at the same time. “Are you serious? You own the shop  _and_  do the artwork? Man, that’s awesome!” It’s hard to keep the reverence out of his tone.

Pink tinges the apple of Castiel’s cheeks, and Dean suddenly thinks that it’s the cutest thing in the fucking  _world_. If anything, he wants to see it over and over again, because he’s sure that the sight of Castiel blushing will never, _ever_ grow old, not if he sees it for a million years.

He explains that he was referred to him by his brother, and that he’s got an idea for a tattoo but he hasn’t had the courage to come to a shop before now.

"Like I said, it’s a stupid idea though," he says, laughing the awkwardness off.

"Well, I’ll be the judge of that." Castiel leans against the counter, one foot crossed over an ankle and his arms crossed over one another. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

Dean rubs his neck again, shoulders hunched. "Okay, well… long story short my mom died when I was kid… and I always wanted something to remember her by, y’know? Nothing cheesy, something unique, memorable, like her, ‘cause she was one of a kind. Anyways, it’s the day of the funeral, and I’m holding a toy that she bought me the Christmas beforehand, and my Uncle Bobby came over and sat with me, and told me to watch the sky. He told me that if you watch the sky closely, you can see white feathers floating in the air, and that if you see them, it means that someone in Heaven is watching over you. He said that it meant my Mom was looking after me even then. That story just stuck with me, and after that I’d spend hours watching the sky, waiting for a feather to float by."

Castiel is deathly silent, the smile gone from his face, and the look that he’s giving Dean is so intense that it’s making him squirm.

"Anyway, that’s what I want. I want one white feather, just underneath my left collarbone. I, uh, I had this idea since I was thirteen, I just… never got round to it…"

Castiel’s face is full of an emotion that Dean can’t read, and after a long moment, he says quietly, “I’ve been tattooing people for eleven years, Dean. That was by far the least stupid idea that I have ever heard. It’s very, very unique, and I’d be honoured to put that onto your body.”

Dean’s ears are red at his comment, and he shuffles awkwardly. “Uh, thanks…” Castiel makes it sound like the most important idea in the world, and it makes Dean feel _special_. “So, how does this work?”

The smile returns to Castiel’s face, and the sight of it almost makes Dean sigh in happiness. Castiel pushes himself off the counter and heads over to the till where a small pad of paper and pen are resting.

"You give me your number and I’ll draw some sketches up for you. Usually, there’s a chargeable fee for the consultations beforehand, but since I’m new to this town I’m offering free sketches until I can build my clientele. Since your brother referred you, I’ll take an extra 20% off of your final price. When I’m done with your designs, I’ll contact you and you can come and check them out, and pick out which one you like. Then, you leave the rest to me."

Dean clears his throat nervously, because Castiel’s just asked for his number (okay, okay technically he has to because he’s a  _client_  now) and he’s never been this anxious giving people his number. They’re freaking digits, for crying out loud.

Despite his teenage-like paranoia, he grabs the paper and pen and scrawls his name and number down, pauses, and, before he can talk himself out of it, scribbles something extra down and backs away quickly, smiling like a goon at the ruffled-haired guy with the unbelievable eyes.

"Okay, so uh, I gotta go, but yeah, call me when you’re done and I’ll uh, come down or whatever… y’know… when you’re done… gotta go…. See you around, Castiel."

Before Castiel can say anything, Dean’s scarpered quicker than The Flash. Confused, he suddenly develops a strange urge and looks down at the pad that has his contact details on it.

——

_Dean Winchester_   
_504 - 2334_   
  
_Maybe when you’re done with sketches, you can show me over coffee/dinner?_

_——_

Castiel smiles.

 


End file.
